


Auditory Voyeurism

by jujubiest



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Episode: s02e06 The High Road, auditory voyeurism, episode coda, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It quickly became apparent to Harold that John and Zoe had moved on from playing poker...and yet John had somehow neglected to turn off his earpiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Occurs right after 2x06: The High Road. Accidental auditory voyeurism, like the tags say...or was it an accident? ;) Not sure how much there will be to this...it all depends on what my brain cooks up, really.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Zoe take the night off, and Harold inadvertently overhears things he shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, mentions of sex, nothing explicit (yet).

The Wylers were all asleep for the night, safe and sound in their home with the threat against them eliminated. John and Zoe had decided to stay one more night, and Harold could hardly begrudge them a night off. They did good work together, he had to admit. Zoe was able to get information in ways that social convention prevented John from accomplishing; somehow Harold doubted Connie Wyler would have taken it quite the same way if John had showed up at her doorstep with an empty baking dish and a sympathetic ear.

Harold kept the line open, allowing the sounds of John and Zoe’s poker banter to fade into a cheerful background as he typed up a work project for one of his many covers. It sounded as though John was losing his shirt; odd that someone in his line of work should have the world’s most ineffective poker face. Harold grinned to himself and zoned out entirely for a little while, secure in the knowledge that their job was done and John was safe for the moment, content even.

Sometime later, a sound that didn’t quite fit filtered through Harold’s focus and broke his concentration. He blinked, and turned his attention to John and Zoe.

It quickly became apparent that they had moved on from playing poker...and yet John had somehow neglected to turn off his earpiece.

Harold’s fingers stilled on his keyboard. He opened his mouth to say something, alert John to his mistake…and then he closed it again and sat back, staring at his computer screen without really seeing anything on it.

John, it seemed, was a quiet lover. He didn’t talk, or make a lot of noise, but there was something in the ragged quality of his breathing, the occasional rumble of a muffled moan, that left Harold in no doubt about what was going on.

Zoe, on the other hand, was…more vocal. She directed, encouraged, corrected, and praised. John seemed to like that, especially the last one. His breathing hitched every time she gave him an indication that he’d done something right. Harold could almost imagine the look on his face: the shy flash of a grin, there and gone in a moment between breaths, self-aware and celebratory without ever quite crossing the line into smugness.

Abruptly, the full implications of what he was doing occurred to Harold, and he shut off the connection, letting out a shaky breath. He felt too warm, all over, and more than a little appalled at himself. This was crossing a line, even for him. He may keep tabs on John as his partner in the field, but that was part of the job, a tacit agreement between them. He had never considered himself—certainly never meant to be—some kind of overbearing voyeur.

He felt like one now, though. And that was before he even considered the additional invasion of Miss Morgan’s privacy. He closed his eyes, grimacing at the thought of what Zoe would think of his listening in on their...private moments.

Harold got up from his computer, a little unsteadily. He would have to find a way to apologize to both of them…or would it be kinder, less mortifying all around, simply to never mention it at all, never think of it again?

Unbidden, the memory of John’s voice, moaning in his ear…Harold couldn’t be sure what was more horrifying: the noise itself, or the way it made him feel. The images it conjured up, try as he might not to allow it to happen. That was the curse of his brain: just as the notion of changing the world could allow him to build the Machine behind his eyes before a single line of code ever went into a computer, the mere memory of hearing John’s quiet, arduous lovemaking had Harold’s mind spinning away images of how John would look, how he would _feel._

Harold sat down again, heavily. He stared at his screen, thinking for a moment that he might distract himself with work...but try as he might, he couldn't completely push the thought of John out of his mind. Once an idea took hold of him, his only recourse was usually to see it through to its end. That's how he had gotten himself into every bit of trouble he'd ever been in, really.

This was not a kind of trouble he had ever anticipated having.

He stayed at his desk, staring at his screen without typing anything, for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold tries to act like nothing is wrong, John knows damn well that something is, and no one communicates well or very clearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, UST and skirting the edge of angst maybe?

By the time John arrived at the library Harold was already there as usual, typing away at his keyboard and seemingly completely absorbed in whatever he was doing. So absorbed, in fact, that he didn’t even answer when John said good morning. He shrugged it off; it wouldn’t be the first time Harold had gotten so absorbed in his work that he forgot everything else around him.

When Harold gave him their new number without ever looking away from his computer screen, John felt a twinge of uneasiness. It seemed intentional, like Harold was doing his best to avoid looking at him. But he brushed it off; there were more immediate things to take care of; namely, Dr. Madeleine Enright.

The sense of wrongness didn’t quite leave him for the entire case. Harold worked with him as usual, but John couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried. He had a feeling he knew what it was about, but that only made it worse.

He supposed it was good to know they were a great team even when they were off; they managed to save Dr. Maddie’s wife, Amy, and keep the good doctor herself from being forced to commit murder in the operating room. Reese allowed himself a small smile watching the two women embrace. This was easily the best part of his job.

It didn’t take long for the contentment to fade, though, replaced with the unwelcome certainty that something was wrong between him and Harold. Something that had Harold keeping his distance, staying silent and refusing to meet his eyes as they walked into the library, each stopping to give Bear a cursory pat on the head before continuing his trajectory. Harold sat heavily down in his chair and immediately began typing. John came to stand next to Harold’s chair, posture rigid, almost at attention.

“Finch,” he said softly. He could hear the tension in his own voice.

Harold’s fingers stopped typing. He took a deep breath that looked and sounded like resignation, then turned and leaned back to allow himself to look John in the face. His eyes behind his glasses were as guarded as John had ever seen them, possibly more so even than when they met.

“Yes, Mr. Reese?”

Harold looked for all the world like he was steeling himself for a blow. Something about it loosened John’s stiff shoulders.

“Did I do something wrong?” He barely schooled back a grimace…but really, what else could it be? He knew for sure that he had no problem with Harold, so clearly Harold was unhappy with him…and yet he registered surprise on Harold’s face at the question, quickly collapsing into lines of regret, apology.

“No, John. Of course not. I have no complaints whatsoever.”

John waited, eyebrow raised in a silent question. Some of the weight had already lifted. So maybe it wasn’t what he had thought. He could see the walls coming down behind Harold’s eyes, but the man was still clearly hiding something.

After an expectant stretch of quiet, Harold sighed deeply, looking shamefaced.

“I had hoped we could avoid discussing this,” he said, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “But I realize now that was completely unfair of me.” He forced himself to look at John squarely. The other man’s brows were now furrowed in confusion. Harold forced himself to go on, feeling his face heat up as he did so.

“Last night, after you wrapped up the Wyler case with Ms. Morgan. The two of you took the rest of the night off, yes?”

Or maybe it was exactly what he had thought. “Yeah, Finch…I didn’t think it would be a problem—“

“No, no,” Harold hurried to cut him off. “It was no problem. You both deserved a night of…relaxation. You absolutely earned it. It’s just…”

“Yes?” John looked much less confused now, though his eyebrows had gone up again at the way Harold stumbled over the word “relaxation.”

“You…forgot to turn off your earpiece,” said Harold helplessly.

John’s face went perfectly blank. “Oh?”

“Yes. Oh.” Harold said meekly.

“And you…didn’t turn it off on your end?” John didn’t sound or look angry, just curious. Harold wasn’t sure how much he could trust that, though. Despite past aspersions on his ability to hide his emotions, he could be a blank slate if he wanted to…especially when he was angry.

“I did,” Harold hedged, but John could tell that wasn’t the whole story. “Just…not immediately.”

There it was.

John was silent for a moment.

“So…did you hear anything interesting?”

Harold blinked, more than a little taken aback. That was _not_ the reaction he had been expected. John still sounded mildly curious, perhaps even a bit amused…and Harold still wasn’t sure he could trust those emotions.

“I…only heard a few minutes at…I assume it was rather toward the beginning of your…activities.”

John was grinning now, but Harold couldn’t see it. He had closed his eyes, too mortified to look at anything, much less John’s face.

“I do apologize, Mr. Reese,” he managed to force out, voice wavering. “I assure you, this was not a premeditated or intentional invasion of yours and Ms. Morgan’s privacy, and it won’t happen again—“

A noise stopped him. He forced his eyes open to find that John was grinning widely at him, and chuckling quietly. For a moment, his pique at being interrupted overrode his embarrassment.

“Mr. Reese, I do not appreciate being laughed at when I’m trying to make you a sincere apology!” He said sharply. John tried to school his expression and failed miserably. He leaned forward and grasped Harold on the shoulder, grinning and shaking his head, still laughing.

“Sorry, Finch, it’s just…you have nothing to apologize for.”

He gave Harold’s shoulder a gentle, companionable shake and then released him, backing away and making himself comfortable on the couch. Harold just stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Mr. Reese…are you sure you quite…understand what I’m attempting to tell you?”

“Oh, I understand,” said John, voice full of mischief and the smile still not quite gone from his face. “You heard me having sex with Zoe, and you let your curiosity get the better of you for a second there…and you think you’ve committed some terrible breach of my privacy.”

“Well…yes,” Harold said, still not sure how this translated into having nothing to apologize for.

John managed at last to pull a halfway serious expression. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and fixed Harold with a gaze that was almost indulgent.

“Harold, you’ve always known more about me than I’ve voluntarily told you. I’ve been aware since day one that you might be watching me or listening in at any given moment, and I don’t mind. It’s just…part of the job.”

“I assure you,” Harold said indignantly, “I have _not_ been listening in regularly during—“

“I know you haven’t,” John interrupted evenly. “Because I always remember to turn off the earpiece.”

He let that hang in the air between them for a moment, soft blue gaze fixed on Harold’s face, unwavering. Harold stared back, mouth pursed in confused consternation. If John always remembered to turn off the earpiece, then what on earth had made him forget this time?

When it finally clicked, Harold’s mouth fell open.

“You…knew I was listening.” It wasn’t a question. John nodded. He didn’t look sheepish, or ashamed, or even a little bit apologetic. He looked quite literally like a man on the edge of his seat, poised to leap into whatever necessary course of action presented itself. Harold said the first thing that came into his mind.

“Did it ever occur to you that Ms. Morgan might not be quite so nonchalant about sharing the intimate details of her…bedroom manner?”

John allowed himself a small smile. “You mean because she’s more of a talker than I am?”

“That’s…I never—“

“Relax, Finch. Zoe knows.”

“She—“

“I wouldn’t have you listening in without asking her first,” he said, as though it should have been obvious. He looked a little offended, actually. “But she knows nothing she and I do together is ever guaranteed to be one hundred percent private. You might be in my ear. Even if you’re not, you might need to call me right in the middle.”

Harold’s face was on fire.

“I still don’t understand,” he managed. “You’ve turned your earpiece off during other…moments with Ms. Morgan. Whatever possessed you to leave it in?”

John shrugged. “Maybe I like having you in my ear, Harold.” He said it almost as though it was an apology, a question with a faint edge of hope. Harold felt his mouth drop open, but no words came out. He had no idea what to say.

Finally:

“I noticed that you seem to enjoy being…told when you’ve…done a good job.”

John’s eyes widened just a fraction.

“Your question, before,” Harold elaborated, voice quiet with horrified awe at what he was admitting, the invisible lines he was crossing. “You asked if I heard anything interesting. I happened to note that although you’re content to take orders, what you enjoy more is being told that you’ve done well afterward.”

John’s face betrayed nothing, but something in the set of it told Harold he had surprised the other man. He stood up, seizing the opportunity like a lifeline.

“Well,” he said, forcing his voice back into the realm of their usual interactions. “As long as that’s all cleared up between us, I should probably get back to work.” He pointedly turned his back to John and busied himself with cleaning off the board, readying it for their next number. John didn’t try to stop him or draw him back into the conversation. He remained a silent presence at Harold’s back, until at last Harold could take it no longer.

“Mr. Reese,” he said, daring, testing. “I want you to know that the work you did today was truly exemplary. I consider myself fortunate to have you as my partner.”

John made a soft, strangled noise behind him. Harold heard him move. He waited a breath, then two. He turned.

John was nowhere to be seen. He had vacated the library.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold contemplates how to approach John with his new-found knowledge...but while he's deciding something horrible happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon events, spoilers for season 2, "Shadow Box" through "Dead Reckoning." 
> 
> Nothing sexy here, just dealing with the canon because let's face it, no one has time to explore their newly discovered penchant for voyeurism and their partner's praise kink when the FBI and rogue CIA operatives are afoot.
> 
> So mostly it just delves into Harold's view of the situation a bit before Shit Happens.

John didn’t bring the conversation up again. He reappeared at the library the next morning with tea for Harold and a box of doughnuts, acting as though nothing strange had happened. He was, it turned out, much better at compartmentalizing things than Harold.

The tenor of their interactions resumed: quiet friendliness, a comfortable familiarity that Harold had begun to allow himself to enjoy in the last year. John showed no signs of discomfort or distress, and there was nothing in his behavior that indicated to Harold precisely _why_ he’d reacted the way he had.

It was a puzzle, which for Harold made it irresistible. But Harold was determined to make himself wait before he tested his new knowledge again. As much as there were things he wanted from John now—things he had not previously allowed himself to even contemplate—he also didn’t want to make him feel cornered. Nor, if he were honest, did he want the shine to wear off this newly-discovered facet of his partner too quickly. He planned to save it up for the perfect moment. So he waited.

He thought he’d found it, too: the perfect case, something difficult, multi-layered and meaningful for John personally, beyond its status as a part of his job. Even while he provided field support through John’s earpiece, a quiet part of his mind contemplated what exactly he would say once John managed to get Shane and Abby out of this mess they were in.

Then it all went to hell, and Harold found himself camouflaging himself against FBI scrutiny in a crowd of bank patrons, Shane and Abby standing stiff and scared beside him, and John in his ear, apologizing. Saying goodbye. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and maintain his cover as John was taken away in handcuffs. He did his part, but he hated it.

The only thing worse than that moment was the one that came nearly a week later. Harold would have taken the sound of John’s voice saying goodbye to him a thousand times over the shriek of metal being tumbled and crushed across a swath of concrete, glass shattering…and the horrible finality of the silence in his ear afterward.

The moments of not knowing seemed to stretch endlessly. Agent Donnelly wasn’t answering his phone, Detective Carter wasn’t answering hers. Harold took slow, deliberate breaths and kept redialing until finally, Carter picked up.

She sounded like she was in pain as she told him what had happened. Donnelly was dead, and a woman—presumably Kara Stanton—had taken John.

Harold didn’t have the attention to spare for the part of himself that wanted to break down, to panic. He kept working through the cold ache in his chest, pulling up everything he could find about Stanton and then heading to meet Carter and Fusco with the information he had gathered.

The calm tone with which he spoke to both detectives belied the combination of fear and furious protectiveness roiling in his gut. Stanton had nearly killed John once before, and by all accounts had managed to make Mark Snow her personal errand boy by strapping a bomb to his chest.

This was different from the prison. There was no need to tread lightly here, no reason to proceed with caution. There would be no need to balance rescuing John with his qualms about attacking guards and police officers, mostly good people just doing their jobs. For this woman, he felt no stirrings of mercy.

Luckily, perhaps, for Kara Stanton, she was not with John when Harold found him. Lucky for her, also, that Harold was not the type to allow a desire for vengeance to overtake him. Willing though he might be to go right through her to get what he wanted, it would only be a means to an end. The end was John. Getting him back, safe and sound, was all that really mattered.

And he did, despite John’s best efforts to martyr himself. Harold disarmed the bomb, brought the lost soldier home…and in doing so felt less like the conquering hero and more like a beleaguered brother in arms, glad to leave the front lines for the relative safety of the library.

It wasn’t until he looked up to see John half-heartedly fending off Bear’s enthusiastic welcome that he allowed himself to breathe, allowed himself to believe that this ordeal, at least, was truly over. The heaviness of his heart lifted a little as he watched them, and then disappeared altogether when John looked past Bear’s bobbing head and excitedly wagging tail, and graced him with a rare, real smile that reached his eyes and chased away all remaining vestiges of the awful, exhausted resignation that had been there on the rooftop.

Harold felt himself smiling back. John was home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch finds that Reese isn't the only one who likes to be praised now and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, this took forever. I apologize profusely, especially to those of you who had to listen to me whine on tumblr.

After expending some effort to untangle himself from seventy pounds of over-excited canine, John climbed to his feet and moved toward the cracked glass pane they used as an investigation board, looking at the information Harold had collected in his absence. He couldn’t help but linger on Kara’s photo. She had been his partner, once upon a time. He wasn’t sure he could ever call her a friend, but then this wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered the possibility that people like him didn’t have friends in the traditional sense, or families. They had partners, and assets, contacts and informants.

Except that in his experience, assets didn’t collude with police officers and falsify evidence to get you out of prison. Partners didn’t chase you onto rooftops and give you ultimatums: either I save you, or we die together.

“The hard drive tell you anything?” He asked, mostly to head off the dangerous path his own thoughts were heading down.

“Not yet,” Harold replied, in the tone of voice that said he was only half-listening while concentrating on something else. “Whatever she uploaded, the encryption is remarkable. I can only assume that the malware it’s protecting is equally sophisticated. The only thing I’ve been able to decompile is when it’s set to go live…a little more than five months from now.”

Five months. “What happens then?” He asked.

“I suppose we’ll find out.” There was an ominous note in his voice.

“Finch?” John said, strangely eager to change the subject. “Thank you.”

Please. Don’t mention it.”

But he needed to. He moved from his place at the board, circling around behind Harold’s chair and resting his hands lightly on the back of it.

“No...really, Finch. Thank you. I got myself into a mess, and you and Carter and Fusco got me out. I’ve had other…partners, who would have left me to my fate.” _Or killed me themselves. We always did like to clean up our own mess._

Harold turned in his seat and fixed John with a look that was mild enough on the surface, but something about the set of his jaw hinted at steel underneath.

“You’ll never have to work with such a partner again, if I have anything to say about it.”

He turned back to the computer and resumed work, but John didn’t move. He felt rooted by that sentence, somehow: the protectiveness of it, the implied promise to be there, to…watch out for him, take care of him? John hadn’t had anyone try to take care of him since he was barely a teenager. It was usually the other way around.

"Mr. Reese,” Harold spoke up suddenly. “When I was spirited away by Ms. Groves, the plan was for you to go on without me.” John made a noise of protest, but Harold kept talking without acknowledging it. “You didn’t do what I planned. You came after me. You found me. With no leads, nothing to go on whatsoever…and quite literally an entire world in which I could have been lost or dead.”

He turned around again, fixed John with that same look, more steel now than mildness, something lightly but definitely…possessive. His voice was soft and low when he spoke, uncharacteristically full of some emotion John could not name.

“You convinced a machine to rewrite its own code in order to find me. That kind of passionate and persuasive power…well, before meeting you I would have said it was the stuff of exceedingly optimistic science fiction. You are truly incredible, and I am lucky to have such a partner…and such a friend.”

Perhaps it was unfair of Harold to put all of that at John’s feet now, fresh from a mutual near-death experience. He had been determined to wait, to save words such as these for a moment when it didn’t feel like a trick, or a trap. But how could he, after listening to John pour words of gratitude over his shoulders, words he knew all too well he did not deserve?

Somehow, waiting no longer seemed to be in anyone’s best interest. When your life was spent keeping deadly, world-shattering secrets—not to mention dodging bullets and disarming bombs—perhaps a bolder approach was called for.

Unfortunately, his bold approach seemed to have turned John to stone. He stood stock still, staring down at Harold and, as far as he could see or hear, not even breathing. There was faint color in his face, and the look Harold had only ever seen before on cameras, the look he got when he was about to do something drastically, unnecessarily reckless and dangerous.

“John—“ he began, but he didn’t get to finish, because John was collapsing in on himself, down on his knees and crowding into Harold’s space, arms wrapping around his back and face hiding pressed somewhere in the vicinity of his solar plexus. It was Harold’s turn to be frozen solid, shocked silent by the sudden and abject display of affection.

“John?” He said again, almost a whisper. He carefully placed his hands on John’s shoulders. John made a muffled noise that might have been Harold’s name, and tightened his hold. Harold sighed, half resigned and half content, and relaxed into the unexpected embrace. He may not deserve it, but he’d be damned if he could turn John away from anything he needed or asked for. He asked so little, especially considering all he gave.

Harold smoothed his hands over John’s shoulders and upper back, tentatively, a repetitive soothing motion. He felt rather than heard John sigh against his shirt, warm through the fabric.

If he could have leaned over that far without causing himself pain, he would have buried his face in John’s neck. As it was he closed his eyes and allowed himself to just…feel it, for a moment. _You’re home. You’re safe._

It took him a moment to realize he was thinking out loud, half-mumbling this calming mantra over John’s bent head. He stopped immediately, embarrassed, and John raised his head.

“I’m only safe because you saved me, Harold.”

Harold averted his eyes from the earnest, open expression on John’s face. Jokes, evasiveness, these he understood. Small, quick smiles and brief touches he’d grown used to. John prodding at his secrets in that lilting, lightly seductive manner he had so perfected…those things he knew intimately and sidestepped easily. But John was on his knees and somehow also practically in his lap, looking him full in the face with no guards up, gazing at Harold like he was John’s personal Jesus. It was unsettling, not least for the way it made something warm and deeply possessive uncurl in the pit of his stomach.

“Still with me, Finch?” John asked, and Harold blinked, looked down into one of those familiar half smiles. “Go somewhere nice?”

“I…I didn’t…I only—“ He had never been at a loss for words like this. Words were things he tried to be careful with, meting them out in precise measures. If he didn’t have the right ones he just stayed quiet, he didn’t stammer like a love-struck idiot. Words were just like lines of code: the right ones could do incredible things, and the wrong ones could break the whole system.

Harold exhaled a frustrated, self-deprecating sound that might have almost been a laugh.

“That’s three times now,” John said, still smiling. “That you’ve saved me.”

Harold tried, but he couldn’t hold the other man’s eyes when he smiled at him like that. It was too bright, too precious and rare a thing, and Harold sternly reminded himself that he _didn’t deserve it._ But John didn’t know that, and Harold had a feeling that he wouldn’t listen even if Harold tried to explain it to him.

And John wasn’t done giving him things he didn’t know Harold didn’t deserve yet, it seemed.

“You were brilliant, Harold,” he breathed. “I already knew that. It was the first thing you ever let me learn about you. But you weren’t just brilliant, you were brave. So brave. No one would think so to look at you…but you’re just as brave as you are anything else. You stared me down…I don’t like to brag, but that’s something very few people have ever done. And then you managed to keep a cool head even when you were literally seconds from death. You saved me, Harold. You were ableto save me when I didn’t even want to be saved. I think you might be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

It was Harold’s turn to choke on his own breath. Had he been unable to look John in the eye? Now he couldn’t bear to look away. Something inside him woke up at John’s words, something small and tentative and ravenously hungry for the praise that fell from the other man’s lips. His hands curled into fists on John’s shoulders, clutching the fabric of his jacket, hoping for some kind of grounding influence.

John somehow managed to both lean back into his hands and simultaneously move forward—or maybe it was that Harold held him tighter, pulled him closer. John was still on his knees, but upright now, back straight and eyes nearly at a level with Harold’s, his face filling Harold’s field of view. Harold closed his eyes, unsure if doing so meant submission to the inevitable or an attempt to deny the reality of it.

When John’s lips touched his, closed and chaste, he pressed back with all the force of the resounding _yes_ from the starving, baying, begging thing coming to life inside his chest.

His clutching fingers released John’s jacket in favor of raking through his short, dark hair. John hummed into his mouth at the contact and wrapped them more securely together, his hands pressing gently at Harold’s back. Harold pulled out of the kiss, just far enough to look into John’s face again, blinking against the brightness of his smile. John went willingly, settling back into Harold’s hands cradling his head, waiting patiently for Harold to decide what came next.

“You look a little shell-shocked Finch,” John said, sounding too short of breath to sell his usual teasing tone.

“This is…not a scenario I anticipated, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, coloring up at the breathlessness in his own voice.

“Me either,” John admitted, and pulled him back in without further elaboration.


End file.
